A rich coating of Beatrice’s DNA bonding agent was spread over each end and allowed to percolate into the surface of each cut for several minutes. It allowed time for the DNA elements of the adhesive to replicate the neurological fingerprints of each stump so that there was no difference between each surface of adhesive and the original spinal portion over which it had been painted. Then, at the precise moment when the two planes of adhesive were neither too fluid nor too solidified, the two sides were joined. Using laser technology developed for the alignment of submicroscopic harddisk computer assemblies, Wolfe and his team aligned old brain stem and young spine so precisely that the identical matrixes of their fibers were butted together, bridged by Beatrice’s bonding material. instantly. the replicated surfaces of the DNA glue began flowing together at the subatomic level, following the original DNA roadmaps first drawn when Peter’s maternal and paternal DNA had sundered themselves and fused their halves together into the blueprint for a new and unique human being. The splice was reinforced with a thin but powerful stainless steel collar no bigger than a napkin ring. All that was left to do now was to splice the twin arteries that ran down each side of the spinal column. “We are reading cross-bridge neurological activity,” a voice blurted out. The man, a member of the neurological monitoring team, almost stammered, struggling to remain at least outwardly calm. Wolfe looked up carefully.
“Volume?”
For a moment, the technician’s jaw was slack, his voice stilled. As a target volume of electrical impulses between the rejoined halves, Wolfe was hoping for twenty, perhaps even thirty percent. That would allow the body to live, and perhaps provide for some movement in the lower limbs. Under these conditions, Peter could survive in a wheelchair. Steven Hawking had done just fine with that. “Eighty percent.” the technician gulped out. “No, eighty-four!” Wolfe stared at the man, who returned a wild-eyed grin. “It’s improving by the second, sir.”
Wolfe swallowed. “And the cranial bundle?” he asked quietly. “All connections reading across the splices,” reported another specialist, buried behind banks of monitors. “Improving in clarity. All others holding even. No degeneration.” A hush fell over the room.
Wolfe nodded cautiously. “Beatrice’s Super Glue seems to be per-forming beautifully” he said. He bent over Peter’s new body. “Let’s finish him up. We might get lucky.” With exquisite care they laid the eyes into the lower half of their sockets-the lateral cut across the eye orbits made that simple enoughthen fit the upper half of the cranium. After applying Beatrice’s glue again, along the skull, along the edge of the sinus and eyelid, along the scalp, they wrapped the bandages. The only remaining step was to graft Hans’s superior corneas onto Peter’s seventy-six year-old eyes, giving him clean windows through which to gaze upon his brave new world. Then the main work was done.
Wolfe sank back, put on Mozart, and drank a cup of latte macchiato, prepared by a specially trained mess sergeant. The man knew exactly what Wolfe preferred to drink and when, including a jeroboam of Cristal champagne that had been left to chill in the green room. Time for that soon, when the last instrument was laid down. While Wolfe rested, Barrola and his team reconnected the carotids. As soon as they were finished, Wolfe was on his feet again. This was crunch time; everyone in the theater knew it. Now was the hour of triumph or defeat, for bringing this man on the table back from the anterooms of death, or pulling the sheet over his face forever. “Call Beatrice,” Wolfe said quietly. “She should be here.” A nurse hurried off.
“Start the pump,” he ordered.
Technicians scrambled. The chrome cylinders of the remaining artificial heart throbbed, the tubing between machine and Peter turned scarlet, and the return of blood into body and brain began. Peter’s bluish flesh began to flush pink “What are we going to call him?” Barrola wondered aloud. Wolfe shot him a look. “I mean,” Barrola said, hoping he hadn’t offended, “he’s not quite Peter and he’s not quite the other one either.” Wolfe smiled, suddenly affable. “He was Peter before, he’ll be Peter after, and he’s Peter now. Period.” “But then, who is that?” asked Barrola, gesturing toward Peter Jance’s corpse. It lay now abandoned like a car with its engine pulled. “A metaphysical question,” Wolfe allowed. “Not really ours to meddle with. People are who they are when they’re alive. What dies ceases to exist. What never was never is, what’s transferred is transforrned, what’s borrowed or stolen becomes the property of the new owner. We’re just moving atoms from one container to the other. They’re still the same atoms, and their energy is eternal and without name.” “But to people outside-”
“Outside what?”
“Here.”
“We’ll announce his death, of course.
“Then who do we say this is?”
Barrola looked warily down at the body of Hans Brinkman, now planted with the brain of Peter Jance. This is the trouble with modern science, Wolfe thought. Ultimately, no matter how unique your vision, you need collaborators. “Why would we want him outside, anyway?” Wolfe said in exasperation. Barrola frowned as though searching for a reply, but Wolfe cut him off with a curt gesture. Beatrice was entering the operating theater. She approached the gallery railing, pale and tentative, almost fragile, staring down at her husband. The entire room froze in silence-she looked around at the gallery, at Wolfe, then back down at Peter.” It wasn’t Peter, she was thinking. No wrinkles, no appendectomy scar, no veins on the back of his hands.” And yet by God it was him- as she barely remembered him, back when they had first been together, joined by passion and the deepest possible love. Except now he looked somehow.” . . clearer. Cleaner. Not an ounce of fat, with sculpted muscles, a gym-trained body, a perfect machine-at once normal and strange, known and alien.” “Fully resanguinated,” the pump crew reported. Beatrice looked at Wolfe, her heart filled with terror. Whatever, whoever-that was her Peter-and he wasn’t moving. Not at all. Wolfe gave her a firm nod of reassurance-then bent again to his task. “Paddles! Quickly!”
Beatrice watched them wheel over the CV resuscitation machine. For the past several hours-was it three or eight, she had finally lost count-she had been in hell. What in God’s name had she been thinking, letting Wolfe talk her into giving Peter the injection, thereby taking all the moral responsibility onto herself, and even allowing herself to hold out such unreasonable hopes? He might have survived the cancer, despite his flagging resistance and his doubts-miracles did happen, after all. But not on this scale, not- “Clear!” shouted Barrola as he clamped the paddles to Peter’s exposed chest.” The body gave a fierce jump and fell still.” Everyone waited for the machine to recharge. Beatrice gripped the railing of the observation balcony, knuckles turning white. “Clear!”
The body convulsed again and once again it fell back.” Lifeless.” Barrola looked hopelessly at Wolfe. Wolfe glared back. Barrola thrust the paddles down again.” “Clear!”
The body flopped, spine arching.” Wolfe clenched his teeth, fighting back despair. How could the splice hold against this torque? The body fell back once more. There it lay, like so much cold meat on the table.” Then someone gave a shout.”
“I’ve got a pulse!”
It was the anesthesiologist as he jumped and stared at his instruments in disbelief. Then they all heard it-the unmistakable beep of the heart monitor, picking up the beat of life within the sleeping body. Peter Jance was alive.”
“EEG,” Wolfe yelled, his voice tight.
“Full alpha and delta neural activity,” came the cry, “Functional at coma level.” All neural pathways reading strongly. Marked improvement from last survey!” They all stared at each other, stunned. A peculiar silence fell over the gleaming room, over the scores of exhausted technicians, surgeons and specialists. The silence held for what seemed like an eternity, until it was punctured by the sharp pop of the cork shooting out of the neck of the jeroboam of Cristal. Everyone turned to see the grinning mess sergeant rushing into the room with the foaming bottle, followed by an assistant with a tray of champagne glasses.” Cheers and shouts filled the air.” The cardiovascular team was doing a touchdown dance, and nurses were crying and embracing.” In the gallery, the military brass slapped each other’s backs, crowding around Henderson to offer their congratulations. Only Alex Davies did something different.” He slipped out the gallery door so quietly that no one noticed. Below, Barrola was holding his hand out to Wolfe, who stared at it a moment with an expression of regal indifference, then shook it. In the gallery Beatrice had her hands cupped over her mouth.” Barrola handed Wolfe a glass of champagne-Wolfe raised it to everyone in the room, smiling as he raised his eyes to Beatrice, now sobbing happily behind her hands. He drank deeply. stripped off his latex gloves, let them drop to the floor and left the room.